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A man ran into the room.
Darting past Draven, he brushed up against me, nearly knocking me to the ground. As he ran past I caught a glimpse of a pointed black beard and a long cloak of onyx and gold.
No, not a cloak.
Wings.
The man leaped towards the altar, forcefully knocking Cavan out of the way.
The High Priest of Perun snarled with rage as he crashed to the floor but it was too late.
Javer was rising, leaping into the air, his wings spreading out and beating loudly as he lifted off the ground just high enough to snatch the chalice from over the altar.
For a moment, he seemed to hang in suspension, his hand upon the rim of the goblet.
And then it spilled.
Blood poured downwards, drenching Javer, the altar, and Kaye.
With a cry of agony, Javer's wings collapsed and he fell back onto the floor in a heap, the cup falling beside him with a dull clatter, the red light pulsing once, twice, then growing dim. He was dead.
I rushed towards my brother as Cavan did the same.
“We must resume the ritual,” the priest shrieked. “You know not what you do.”
“Damn your ritual.” I whirled with my blade. “The Sword of Perun serves me now.”
Ferrum deae.It was the iron of the goddess. There was no place for the god here tonight. Not even in his own temple.
The blade cut through the air with a menacing whoosh.
There was a sickening sound as the sword sliced through bone and flesh.
Cavan’s head tumbled to the ground, his eyes rolling upwards.
The bounds holding Kaye to the altar were next. I cut them carefully one by one, then lifted my brother off the wretched slab of stone. He was heavier than I remembered. I pulled him onto the floor, cradling him in my lap.
Across the room, Draven’s eyes met mine. He held the child in his arms. I held my brother in mine.
I could almost read his thoughts. What now?
My entire body felt weary with pain and relief.
Yet still it was not over. Outside, a battle raged. We had to get out of the temple.
But what would we emerge to? Where could we go with Arthur’s child and with Kaye?
On the ground, beside Draven, Orcades began to cough.
Setting the sleeping newborn carefully on the floor beside its mother, Draven carefully lifted my sister to a sitting position, cupping her head with infinite gentleness to try to help her breathe more easily.
Turning her head with great effort, Orcades looked over at me and tried to smile. “Sister. A dark birthright indeed.” Her voice was tinged with irony as she quoted from the prophecy. “Arthur still lives?”
“As far as we know,” I told her. “You will, too.”
She grimaced, pain clouding her face. “No. I think not.”
“Did you know?” I was angry suddenly. Angry with her for leaving me. “Did you know this would be the price?”
